I held out my hand and waited for the gold tube to land in my palm. I dropped the blasted thing into my purse, stumbled through the gate and let one of the paramedics load me onto the ambulance, which is how I ended up holding Bobby Lowell’s hand when he died.
Two
I waited in the ER in a room created by ugly curtains. My wrist and hand, wrapped in clean white bandages, throbbed. I wanted home. I wanted a shower. Failing that, I wanted a scrub-brush and strong soap, because each time I closed my eyelids I saw my fingernails painted with Bobby’s blood.
Finding another body was not what I had planned. Our return home from a summer of wandering through Europe was meant to be a return to solid, familiar ground. Grace would be surrounded by caring friends. She’d go back to school and a sustaining routine. I would paint. The raw pain caused by death would begin to fade. We both would heal.
Instead, one of Grace’s oldest friends was dead. Murdered.
Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes and I blinked them away. Thinking about Bobby Lowell was a mistake; it made my throat swell and my jaw ache. I couldn’t afford muzzy thinking, not when a police detective waited for me. One who probably had a list of questions longer than the strip of gauze circling round and round my wrist.
As a distraction, I rendered my little cubicle on an imaginary canvas. Oatmeal-colored vinyl curtains hung on grommets, mysterious machines sat quietly. The bed, which I’d abandoned in favor of an uncomfortable chair, was metal with a thin blue mattress and an abandoned tangle of scratchy sheets. The whole place stank of iodine and desperation. It would make a terrible painting.
I narrowed my eyes and let the colors run together—the oatmeal of the curtains, the silver of the bedrails, the obnoxious blue of the mattress. It was still a terrible painting.
A nurse yanked the curtain along its pole. Its metallic screech set my teeth on edge. “The police are ready to see you now.”
Some nurses are sadists who’ve figured out how to get paid. This one wasn’t so bad. She’d injected my arm with lidocaine before the doctor sewed quick, neat stitches from the base of my wrist to the base of my thumb, and she’d found me the top to a set of scrubs so I didn’t have to sit around wearing just my bra.
It was that second kindness that earned her my undying gratitude. Talking to the police in my bra was even less appealing than a holiday cruise. Mother insisted Grace and I couldn’t spend Christmas in the house where Henry died. Her answer was a flight to San Diego and a cruise to Mexico. For all of us. Nothing says holiday spirit like being stuck on a boat for six days with a woman whose telling sighs probably weighed more than the anchor. Thank heavens for Daddy; he flatly refused to eat Christmas dinner on a boat.
The nurse led me to a room with real walls, paused outside the real door, then offered me a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Is there someone I can call to come pick you up?”
I shook my head. Libba was taking care of Grace. I’d talked to them both, assured a teary Grace I was fine and promised to be home soon. Calling any of my other friends would mean a lengthy explanation. I had only one explanation in me and it was reserved for the police. “No, thank you.”
“Not your husband?”
“I’m a widow.”
She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t. Even if he was still alive, it was unlikely Henry would have gone to the trouble of picking me up from the hospital. “Thank you for offering. When I’m done, I’ll call a cab.”
I smoothed the loose folds of my shirt. Why did I never talk to the police looking polished or put together? Then I entered the room.
Detective Anarchy Jones sat at the table inside.
My feet stopped moving forward, my intestines defied the laws of science and turned from solid to liquid in the time it took me to blink. My knees no longer seemed strong enough to support me. Only my mouth continued to function.
“What are you doing here?” I lifted my unbandaged hand to cover it before it said anything else.
Detective Jones stood. A smile that webbed the corners of his eyes and quirked his lips ghosted across his lean face. “The usual. Investigating a murder where you found the body.”
“Oh.” It barely qualified as a sound, much less a word. It was still infinitely better than I’m sorry I didn’t call you and let you know I was back.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Russell.”
Mrs. Russell. Oh dear. When had I gone back to being Mrs. Russell? I preferred being called Ellison and he knew it. I carefully lowered myself into a chair.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I held up my arm. “Eight stitches.”
He sat across from me. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” Mrs. Russell wasn’t about to tell him that she and Grace were still muddling through Henry’s death or that she wasn’t ready for another man in her life.
“Are you? All right?”
Aside from my poor judgment in men—my liking him wasn’t exactly a point in his favor—and my questionable taste in lipsticks, I was fine. Then again, maybe he was just asking if I was all right after finding poor Bobby.
He waited for me to say something.
I stared at the table and wished I was at home. He should have figured out by now that the emptiness of silence doesn’t bother me. I won’t speak just to fill it.
He gave up. Sort of. Anarchy Jones will lose a battle to win the war. Being the first to speak was a very small battle. “You knew Bobby Lowell?”
I nodded. “Since he was five. He and Grace were in kindergarten together.”
“What happened tonight?”
I told him everything—my dropped lipstick, the unlocked gate, the person who knocked me down.
Anarchy leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “Man or woman?”
“A man, I think. I wouldn’t swear to it. It happened so fast…”
He gave me the look. The disbelieving one that police save for an unreliable witness who can’t tell who’s knocked her on her keister. “Then what happened?”
“I went under the stands to find my lipstick. I found Bobby.”
“Did you know it was him?”
My throat swelled and my jaw ached. “No. Not at first.” I swallowed an unwelcome lump. “I just knew it was someone who’d been hurt.”
“What kind of a kid was he?”
I have a Polaroid of Bobby and Grace at their third grade Halloween party. Bobby is a grinning, gap-toothed Superman. Grace is Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. His arm is draped around her with the sunny confidence of a boy who excels at everything. That boy lay in a morgue. “He was a good kid.”
“Really?” Detective Jones’ left eyebrow rose. “That’s not what I heard.”
Bobby asked Grace to the seventh grade dance. He showed up on our front steps looking as if his striped tie might choke him to death. He brought her a corsage—a pink rose. The next morning I helped Grace press it between the pages of a book. She still has it, the first flower a boy ever gave her.
“He took Grace to a dance once.” Henry snapped pictures before we sent them down the front walk where Bobby’s mother waited to drive them. Poor CeCe. “Bobby’s parents divorced a couple of years ago. It was…ugly. Bobby’s been going through a rough patch.”
“Maybe some part of that rough patch got him killed?”
“Or maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You don’t seriously believe that, do you?”
I didn’t. When the stranger knocked me down I’d thought sex or drugs. I lowered my forehead into the palm of my uninjured hand.
“Ellison, tell me what you know.”
Ellison. He’d used my first name. I lifted my gaze and searched his face—lean cheeks, expressive mouth, eyes that could make married women forget their vows—and I wasn’t
married. He’d picked up a tan over the summer. It made him even more attractive. I shook my head. “I don’t know anything.”
He snorted softly. “I have to know why Bobby was killed before I can figure out who did it. Please, help me.”
“How? I haven’t seen him in at least a year. Maybe longer.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He asked me to tell her he loved her.” My hard-won dry eyes suddenly swam in tears. Bobby wasn’t a bad kid. With his dying breaths, he’d expressed his love for someone.
“Was he in love with Grace?” Anarchy asked.
“No.” Bobby and Grace hardly saw each other.
“Then who?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
He stared at me for a moment. Waiting for me to say more? He leaned back in his chair. “You’re telling the truth.”
I sat up straight and crossed my arms over my chest, careful to keep the injured arm on top. “You can read me that easily?”
He chuckled. “Anyone can read you. You scratch the end of your nose when you lie.”
The black expression I directed across the table seemed amusing to him. He grinned.
I lifted my non-itching nose in the air. “If you have nothing further?” I stood.
“Nothing this evening. But I will be in touch.”
Exactly what I was afraid of.
The cabbie dropped me off in front of a house ablaze with lights. I glanced at my watch, saw the time—one in the morning—and sighed. I’d been holding onto a cowardly and apparently vain hope that Grace might be asleep, that I might stow my grief in a sock drawer and avoid dealing with hers until morning.
I trudged up the front steps and unlocked the door.
Max the Weimaraner met me with a sleepy sniff and quick rub of his head against my leg, his version of a doggy hug. Maybe he’d finally forgiven me for leaving him with our housekeeper Aggie all summer. I scratched behind his silken ears, then followed voices into the kitchen.
Libba and five teenage girls stood around the kitchen island, its marble top hidden by open bags of chips, a bowl of popcorn, an empty Eggo box, syrup-covered plates, Tab cans, a spill of strawberry Pop Rocks and one extra-large, extra full glass of wine. Annoyance flared within me like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July. I’d watched a boy die and Libba had okayed a slumber party?
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “Grace wanted to have a few friends over.”
Nothing like putting me on the spot. “Of course not.” I offered her a sugary smile. She deserved torture, “Seasons in the Sun” until her brain melted and leaked out her ears.
The flare of annoyance sputtered and died when I looked more closely at the girls’ faces. Tears stained their cheeks and their eyes were red and puffy. They’d gathered to support each other and share their grief. Who was I to deny them that comfort? “Hi, girls.”
They answered with a collective, “Hello, Mrs. Russell.”
Debbie, Peggy, Kim—all girls I’d watched grow up—and someone I didn’t know. She held out her hand. “I’m Donna Richardson, Mrs. Russell. It’s nice to meet you.”
I shook the girl’s hand. It had all the weight of a skein of cotton candy. Her face was delicate too, with pale skin framed by a sheet of dark brown hair. She looked brittle. If someone poked her, she might break. “Welcome, Donna. It’s nice to meet you too.” I let go of her hand and my gaze swept over the group. “It’s late, don’t you think you should be in bed?”
I’m not sure what it says about Libba that six sets of eyes rolled.
“Mom, what happened? You have to tell us. Everyone’s saying Bobby is dead.”
Telling a teenager that one of her friends has died is brutal. There are no gentle words. At least not ones I could think of. Tears wet my eyes and I nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Grace looked wan beneath her tan, as did Peggy, Kim and Debbie. Donna was already so pale, it was impossible to tell if her skin blanched as well.
An eternity of silence ticked by before Grace took a ragged breath. She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes. “Everyone’s saying he overdosed.”
“No.” I shook my head.
“What happened?” asked Kim. Her voice shook, making six syllables out of what should have been three.
I didn’t know for sure. A knife? A gun? All I’d seen was a bottomless well of blood. “The police are looking into it.”
For one horrific instant, Grace swayed. The child had dealt with more murders over the summer than most people encounter in a lifetime. I’d just presented her with another one. Her hands grabbed the edge of the counter and the swaying stopped. Her friends drew closer to her, as if their proximity could give her strength.
“Was he...” Donna covered her mouth with her hand. Her dark blue eyes looked too large for her face. China doll eyes, perfect for her porcelain skin. “Was he alive when you found him?”
“Yes.”
Somehow, Donna’s eyes grew even bigger.
“Did he suffer?” asked Kim. Her eyes looked even larger than Donna’s. And wet. As if she was holding back a tidal wave of tears.
I was bone tired, in no shape for a storm of teenage emotion. “No. Not at all.” My nose itched like hell. I ignored it. “You girls should go to bed.” My gaze lingered on Libba’s extra-large, half-empty glass of wine. “Libba, maybe you should spend the night too.”
No one moved.
“I mean it, girls. Go to bed. Go to sleep.” I borrowed one of my mother’s baleful expressions. “We can talk about this in the morning.”
Slowly they pushed back from the counter.
“Go.” I used my good arm to point toward the back stairs.
One by one they filed up the stairs until only Grace and Libba remained.
“There are extra blankets and pillows in the linen closet,” I said to Grace. “I think the extra sleeping bags are in the closet in the blue guest room.”
She didn’t move.
“Your friends are waiting for you upstairs.” I picked up a dirty plate and put it in the sink.
“Mom.”
I turned and looked at her.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Are you?”
Her mouth twisted and she scratched the end of her nose. “I’m fine.”
I opened my arms and Grace walked into them. We both needed a hug. The almost-woman in my embrace smelled of strawberry shampoo and Love’s Baby Soft. Underneath those scents I detected hints of sunshine and sweat and something uniquely Grace. My whole world. “We’ll talk in the morning,” I promised.
“Okay.” She pulled away from me. It’s a monumentally unfunny cosmic joke that children grow up and leave home. Even less funny is the fact that good parents encourage them to do so. Damn it. My skin tingled from the loss of her touch and my chest constricted.
Grace’s steps reached the top of the stairs, then I turned on Libba. Her hair, which usually hung in a perfect dark curtain around her shoulders, was mussed and her brown eyes looked unfocused.
“How is it I have four extra girls here?” I asked.
She swallowed a deep, sheepish sip of wine. “It started with one and then snowballed.”
Teenaged girls do that. I picked up a syrup-covered plate and put it in the sink. “Kim and Peggy and Debbie I understand, but who is Donna?”
“Do you remember India Easton?”
I put another plate in the sink. Cleaning up one-handed wasn’t easy. “No. Care to help?”
Libba opened the cabinet beneath the sink, pulled out the trashcan, and swept an avalanche of Pop Rocks into it. “You should remember her. She was three years ahead of us at Suncrest. She went to Wellesley.”
I stared at her blankly.
Libba put the trashcan down, sloshed some more wine into her glass, and leveled h
er blurry gaze on me. “She was a cheerleader. She dated Harrison Granger.”
I shook my head. “I don’t remember her.”
Libba waved away my faulty memory with an elegant flip of her wrist. “At any rate, she went to Wellesley.”
“You already said that.” I considered the two fingers of wine left in the bottle. The emergency room doctor had forbidden drinking, but it was oh so tempting.
“She met a boy at Harvard and they got married and moved to Stamford, Connecticut.”
None of which explained why Donna Richardson was in my house. The wine was looking better and better.
Libba reached for the bottle and emptied the last of it into her glass.
My eyes narrowed. Damn it. She deserved “Seasons in the Sun” ad nauseum.
“He made an absolute pile of money doing…” She waved her hand. “Something. Anyway, he died. A couple of years ago, I think. India remarried and came back to Kansas City.”
Aha! Donna must be India’s daughter. That still didn’t explain why she was sleeping in my house with girls who’d been inseparable since they were six.
Libba brought the glass with the last of the wine to her lips. “I don’t speak teenage girl, but I think Kim took Donna under her wing this summer and insisted that she come tonight.”
I nodded, finally understanding. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Kim’s mother organized things—parties, luncheons, charity committees, and people—with an efficiency that I only dreamed of. Well, Mother dreamed of it for me.
“I am sorry about the slumber party,” said Libba.
She didn’t look sorry. She looked drunk.
“It’s not a problem. I just wanted to know who she was.” I opened the back door and tossed the popcorn onto the patio for the birds and squirrels, then I turned on the hot water in the sink and watched the syrup melt off the plates. “Would you close those chip bags? Aggie can finish cleaning the rest of this up in the morning.” My bed sang a siren’s song. Its voice floated through the upstairs hall and down the stairs to the kitchen—come to me, come to me, come to me. I was ready to answer its call. Even without wine, I could barely keep my eyes open. “I assume you’re spending the night?”
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 2
